


The Goldberg Variations

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Incest, abusive father/son relationship, gold is bleeding very badly is what i mean, implied rape, the literal hurt/comfort not the emotional kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 21:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: Archie finds Mr. Gold in a very bad state.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Although the ending implies that there will be more of this story, I'm pretty sure it's a oneshot lol sorry folks. Also I initially had this listed as Archie/Gold but there's no romance in here soooo

The one day Archie left home without his umbrella, and he got caught in a rainstorm. It came out of nowhere; one minute the sky was clear, and the next Archie was soaked to the bone. There wasn’t even a warning drizzle first.

He was wandering around somewhere in the fancy side of town - he wasn’t even sure where, now that it was raining so hard. Archie took his glasses off and squinted; he could make out lights in the windows of a house nearby. Maybe whoever was inside would let him in until the rain passed.

He hurried forward, bounding up the stairs, but his first knock was swallowed by the sound of shouting from inside. Archie frowned, hesitating before he knocked again. He couldn’t quite make out the words being said; there was only one voice speaking - a man’s voice, with an accent - but there were pauses every now and then like someone else was responding just out of Archie’s earshot.

Archie bit his lip; it was cold outside, but at least here on the doorstep, he was out of the rain. If whoever was inside let him in, they’d at least suspect that Archie had heard them calling someone else a … well, those words were best left unrepeated.

Suddenly, the shouting seemed to be getting closer, before cutting off. Archie heard footsteps rushing toward him and he hurtled backward just as the front door burst open, barely missing him. A man Archie didn’t recognize paused only briefly to give him a glare, and then he was gone, disappearing into the car in the driveway.

Mr. Gold’s Cadillac, Archie realized. But the man who’d taken it definitely wasn’t Mr. Gold. He was as tall as Archie, with short grey hair and a scruffy beard.

And he’d had blood on his shirt. Archie hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at it, but he was sure of what he’d seen. He stood on the doorstep as the Cadillac peeled away and considered his choices.

He’d definitely heard someone - probably the man who’d just left, considering the redness of his face and his furrowed brows - screaming at someone else. And now he knew there was blood involved, too. Archie peered inside; the front door was still wide open, revealing a dark parlor stuffed with antiques.

Archie had never been to Mr. Gold’s house before, and he was trying hard to pretend that this house - large and pink - belonged to someone else, that the car in the driveway was just a coincidence. It was admittedly much easier to imagine anyone else other than Gold getting yelled at and possibly hurt. 

Archie took a deep breath and stepped into the house. He moved quietly, poking his head into every room he passed and giving it a cursory look. There were ancient-looking books, a small oak table, and a birdcage all piled on the couch in the living room, with clothes draped over the back. Archie scanned every corner as quickly as he could before moving on.

It wasn’t until he reached the second floor that he heard harsh, shallow breathing. Archie froze, trying to pinpoint the source. Slowly, he moved toward a door in the middle of the hall. It was cracked open, but not enough for Archie to see inside; he pushed it open bit by bit, ignoring the loud creaking. It was much easier to ignore than the fearful inhale he heard inside.

The door opened without anything blocking it, and Archie stood there, his eyes fixed on the form huddled on the floor between the bathtub and the toilet. Mr. Gold was barely recognizable - his suit was unkempt, torn, and stained red. His jacket was nowhere in sight and his untucked, half-buttoned shirt was soaked with blood and water; he was wearing no shoes, and one foot was entirely bare, with not even a sock to cover it. A large gash on his forehead was slowly gushing blood that covered almost his entire face. When Archie stepped inside - just one step - Gold flinched, but didn’t open his eyes.

“Dad?” Gold said, his voice small. He put one hand on the side of the tub, the other coming up in front of him like a shield. He was shaking like a leaf.

“No,” said Archie, his throat dry. “No, it’s - uh, it’s Archie Hopper.”

Gold didn’t respond for a moment; his chest moved up and down quickly, his hand stayed in the air. “Dr. Hopper?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Archie. He took a few cautious steps closer and crouched down, keeping a good distance between himself and Gold. Gold’s head wound was shallow, but it must have been bleeding for quite some time - most of the blood on his face was dry. In fact, it looked like it had dried right over his eyes, sealing them shut. Archie’s gut churned looking at the wound.

“What --” Gold started, then stopped, his breath still coming too fast and hard for regular sentences. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s storming outside,” Archie said. “I was gonna knock and see if I could hang out inside ‘til it died down, but …”

Gold’s hand was still hovering in the air. On an impulse, Archie wrapped his fingers around Gold’s, holding him gently until Gold stopped flinching. 

“Okay,” Archie said, “listen, are --you hurt anywhere other than your head?”

 

Gold angled his head toward Archie but didn’t answer. Archie gave him a few seconds; when it became evident that Gold wasn’t going to speak, he asked another question:

“Can you stand?”

Another few beats of silence. Then,

“Where did my father go?” Gold asked, his accent thick. Archie squeezed Gold’s hand and got a faint squeeze back.

“He left,” he said. “If I help you, can you stand? I need you to sit on the toilet, okay?”

Gold nodded and brought his other hand toward Archie, feeling around until he found Archie’s shoulder. Archie stood quickly, pulling Gold up just enough to deposit him on the toilet seat. Gold nearly slipped right back onto the floor, disoriented from blood-loss and blindness; Archie steadied him with one hand and then turned around, snagging a washcloth off the towel rack behind him.

He turned the sink faucet on and waited for the water to get warm, biting his lip. He could hear Gold taking slow, shaky breaths and he was trying to convince himself that they were just sighs, not sobs. At any other time, Archie would be shocked just to see Gold walking around without a suit jacket on, so to see him today, shaking and bleeding on the bathroom floor with his clothes in disarray, was almost enough to make Archie doubt his sanity. He’d managed to remain calm so far, but he was pretty sure that would all go out the window if Gold cried.

The water slowly turned hot; Archie ran the washcloth underneath it, getting it good and wet before turning back to Gold. 

“Okay,” Archie said, “I’m gonna wash your face now. Do you want me to clean the cut first so it stops bleeding, or do you want me to clean your eyes?”

As soon as he stepped into reach, Gold latched onto Archie’s sweater sleeves and refused to let go, his fingers briefly brushing the skin on Archie’s wrist. Gold’s grip was so light it was barely noticeable, and it took Archie a moment to realize this was the closest Gold could bring himself to holding Archie’s hand.

“Eyes first,” Gold murmured. He was still trembling pretty hard; Archie cupped the back of Gold’s head with his palm to hold him still and brought the washcloth up to Gold’s eyes, rubbing as gently as he could. Gold was incredibly tense for a full minute, even baring his teeth once or twice, but he relaxed by increments, lulled by the warm washcloth and Archie’s fingers in his hair.

Which was normal, Archie reminded himself, and would happen with anybody. He worked on one eye at a time, dabbing at the crusted blood that was keeping Gold’s eyelids glued together. He got Gold’s left eye first; it shot open, nailing him with a piercing look. Gold’s eyes were surprisingly dry, considering he was still clutching Archie’s forearms and trying to take deep breaths.

Archie moved onto the right eye, and when it was finally free, Gold exhaled slowly and removed his hands from Archie’s arms, clasping them in his lap instead. Archie wondered for a moment if Gold had really been seeking comfort or if he’d just wanted to know where Archie was while he was blinded.

“Try to breathe, okay?” Archie said softly, turning around to rinse the washcloth off. Pink water trickled down the drain. He turned back and caught Gold with his face crumpled, like he was trying not to cry. But Archie didn’t have time to analyze that look - one blink and Gold’s face was blank again, if a little pained.

“Okay,” Archie said, trying not to sound too confused. “Let’s see about that cut.”

He cleaned it slowly, with one hand tangled in Gold’s hair again to keep him from flinching away. When Archie put pressure on the wound, Gold stuttered out the beginning of a word - what word exactly, Archie couldn’t tell - before silencing himself. The rest of the time passed without any noteworthy events; Archie bandaged the cut using some gauze from beneath the sink and finished wiping the blood off Gold’s face.

Gold’s shirt was almost entirely unbuttoned, revealing an especially large blood splatter on his neck and collarbone. Archie cleaned those too, earning a startled, reproachful glare from Gold. Now that Gold was mostly clean, with the gash on his forehead bandaged, Archie was starting to notice other troubling things: his bloodshot eyes and split lip, the dark patchwork of bruises forming over his cheek and ribs.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Archie asked, stepping back. Gold shook his head and stood slowly, on shaking legs.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” said Gold. He kept sneaking odd, half-angry looks at Archie, when he thought Archie wasn’t looking. Archie came closer and, with a muttered apology, started gently probing at Gold’s ribs, making sure they were all intact. Gold’s flesh itself seemed to shy away from his touch, and when Archie heard a sharp intake of breath, he made a mental note: Gold was ticklish.

“Can you walk?” Archie asked, stepping back again and looking pointedly at the wet stain - either blood or water, he couldn’t tell - near Gold’s ankle. Gold flushed, avoiding Archie’s eyes.

“I  _ could _ walk,” he said. His voice was quiet but clear, like he wanted to mumble but felt that mumbling was rude. “I don’t know where my cane is.”

“Your dad took it?” Archie asked. Gold shot him a sharp look; he didn’t answer. “I can look for it, if you want,” Archie offered. “Or I can help you to your bedroom first, and then look for it. It’s up to you.”

Gold looked around the room with his eyebrows furrowed, appearing to consider his options. Eventually, he gave a minute shrug and took a halting, half-step toward Archie.

“Your room first?” Archie guessed, grabbing onto Gold’s arm. Gold leaned on him heavily.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

They made their way out of the bathroom; Gold pointed Archie to the room right next door, a beautiful but messy master bedroom. The smell of sex was unusually strong in there and Archie tried his best to ignore it; he could tell by the self-conscious look on Gold’s face that he smelled it too, and it was obvious that mentioning it would just make things worse. As he helped Gold to the bed, Archie suddenly remembered that no one had been in the house except Gold and the other man -- evidently Gold’s father.

The sex smell was much more disturbing now. Archie tried to convince himself it was just the scent of masturbation - which was embarrassing enough in its own right, but at least it didn’t imply incest. Gold stood awkwardly by the mattress, refusing to sit down, his eyes constantly flickering back to something on the sheets.

Archie waited until Gold was distracted and then glanced at the sheets, too. He immediately averted his eyes, but knew it would be awhile before he got that image - a large, fresh cum-stain in the middle of the mattress - out of his mind.

“Uh, so, you probably wanna change,” Archie said, turning away from the bed entirely. Gold didn’t answer, but eventually Archie heard his feet padding across the room to the closet. Archie turned again, this time facing the door. He could hear Gold’s clothes rustling; when Gold finally cleared his throat, signaling that he was done, Archie looked back and tried to keep a look of surprise off his face. Gold was wearing casual clothes - jeans and a red sweater. His more expensive, utterly ruined suit was draped over the back of a chair.

Gold glanced out the window, grimacing at the sight of rain still coming down in torrents.

“Doesn’t look like it’ll end anytime soon,” he said. “Do you wanna go downstairs?”

His eyes flickered toward the bed as he said it; Archie tried not to think about what that might mean. He just nodded, suddenly struck dumb. Gold had evidently found his cane - or a spare - wedged into the closet, and he led the way down to the kitchen, which seemed to be the cleanest room in the house.

“You’re soaking wet, you know,” Gold murmured as he rounded the counter, looking for something in the cupboards.

_ Ten minutes ago, you were covered in blood _ , Archie thought. Gold rummaged around in one of the drawers and came up with a reddish candle and a book of matches in his hand. He set the candle on the counter and lit it, the flame highlighting his hooded eyes and long lashes.

“I have to apologize,” Gold said, his voice soft, as he straightened up and looked out the window. “I don’t imagine you knew what you were getting into when you knocked on my door.”

Archie stared at Gold for a moment; he was partially sympathetic and partially just admiring Gold’s skintone with the new, warm tones added to it by the candlelight.

“I knew a  _ little _ bit of what I was getting into,” Archie admitted. “I could hear your dad yelling through the door. Actually, I don’t think I even knocked - I was about to just go next door when he came out and nearly knocked me down.”

Gold grimaced. “Yeah, he …” He struggled for words. “He knocked me over, too.”

“Bit of an understatement,” Archie said, his voice soft. Gold’s lips quirked in a horrible facsimile of a smile.

“Not really,” he said. He looked like he believed it, too, like somehow getting “knocked over” and getting blinded by one’s own blood were comparable.

“So, down here?” Archie asked. Gold met his gaze, eyebrows furrowed.

“Huh?”

“He knocked you down in the kitchen?” Archie asked. Gold opened his mouth and then closed it again, apparently unsure what to say. “I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to land on a knife and cut your forehead open,” Archie said. “I don’t imagine there were any knives in the bathroom, so it must have been here.” He made a show of scanning the floor. “Huh. I guess he picked the knife up afterward. And cleaned up all the blood.”

“Patching up a wound gives you no right to be an arse,” Gold said, his look of confusion quickly becoming an icy glare. Archie felt immediately chastened; he’d thought that Gold would warm up more to a snarky person than to a sympathetic one, but it seemed Gold was a great deal more sensitive than he looked.

“Sorry,” Archie said. “I just --”

“Save it,” Gold said quietly, turning away. He started looking through the cupboards again, and this time Archie got the distinct impression that Gold was just avoiding conversation. Gold opened one cupboard, shuffled the pots and pans inside anxiously, and then closed the door so he could fiddle with the silverware.

“Mr. Gold?” Archie said, deciding to try a more direct route. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you … live with your father?”

Gold stopped fidgeting but didn’t turn around; his shoulders were a tense line.

“That’s rather forward,” he said. Archie hesitated a moment; one could make the argument that Gold’s personal life was none of his business - but then again, hadn’t it  _ become _ his business when he found Gold bleeding on the bathroom floor?

“It’s just odd to me,” said Archie, “that you’d feel the need to. You’re the richest guy in town. Most people stay with their parents because they  _ need _ to, you know?”

“Or because their parents need them,” said Gold roughly. He turned around, meeting Archie’s eyes plainly and openly. He looked dead-tired. 

“Does your father need you?” Archie asked. Gold let out a quiet sigh.

“More than you know.”

“Enough for you to tolerate abuse?” Archie asked. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look more authoritative than he felt. In truth, he was confused more than anything - Gold presented a perfect picture of autonomy to the people of Storybrooke. Archie, for one, had had no idea there was more than one Gold living in town. He’d have never guessed it - though, if the thought had ever crossed his mind, he might have guessed that Gold was the product of an abusive household. 

“Exaggeration doesn’t suit you,” Gold said, his eyes cast toward the floor.

“I agree,” Archie said. “That’s why I don’t exaggerate.”

A thick silence fell between them; Archie was frankly surprised that Gold hadn’t thrown him out of the house yet. It occurred to him, though, that Gold might prefer some company right now, even if said company was a nosy therapist bent on stirring up all the most sensitive topics.

“I have --” Archie started, then stopped, cleared his throat, and began again. “I have some - some pamphlets, if you want to see them -”

Gold looked at Archie sharply. “You carry pamphlets around with you?”

“I-- no,” Archie said, startled. “I mean, not  _ here _ . I don’t have them  _ with  _ me, they’re - uh, they’re at the office. But still …”

“Well, it’s the thought that counts,” Gold said. Archie hesitated a moment before nodding.

“Let’s start over,” he suggested. Gold sniffed.

“As soon as it stops raining, you’re out of my house.”

“Right,” said Archie. He leaned on the table awkwardly, searching for something - anything - that would turn the conversation toward pleasanter things. Or at least, a pleasanter attitude. “Uh, have you seen  _ The Walking Dead _ ?” he asked.

Gold sighed heavily and lowered himself into on the chairs. “No,” he said flatly. “What is it?”

“It’s a TV show,” Archie said. “About zombies.”

Gold’s nose wrinkled - not a fan of horror, Archie surmised. He searched his mind for other conversation topics.

“Did you, um, did you see … did you see the new episode of  _ Parks and Rec _ ?”

Gold looked up at him, his eyebrows furrowed. “Of what?”

“Not much of a TV watcher, are you,” said Archie. 

“I’m not --” Gold started, and then cut himself off, looking almost sick. “I - no. I’m not.”

Archie nodded. He decided not to question Gold about where that sentence had been going originally. He looked around the kitchen absently, taking in the polished wooden countertops, the antique spice rack, and then contrasting that with the crusty pizza trays crowding up the sink and the empty frozen dinner boxes littering the ground around the trash can. The trash can wasn’t even full, Archie noted - there was no reason for someone to throw shit on the ground. And on the wall, next to the microwave, were fresh stains that looked like canned soup. Archie could easily imagine someone prying open a can of Campbell’s and accidentally flinging droplets of soup onto the wall. He looked at Mr. Gold, always neat, his shop a little cluttered but never dirty, and knew instinctively that Gold wasn’t the one ruining the kitchen. 

“You got any pets?” Archie asked, trying to take his mind off the state of Gold’s house. Gold glanced at him, shoulders rising and falling in what might have been either a shrug or a sigh.

“Used to,” he said. “A cat. David.”

“David?” Archie asked. “That’s kind of an unusual name.”

Gold looked at him, a hint of humor in his eyes. “I named him after the vet. David Nolan. Originally, his name was Willow. Mr. Nolan thought it was a girl’s name. So I changed it.”

Archie snorted. “So was his name  _ just  _ David, or --?”

“No,” Gold said. “David Nolan. When I took him for his shots, I gave both names. Mr. Nolan didn’t appreciate it.”

Archie chuckled. “Oh God, I can imagine. What happened to him?”

Gold’s pleasant expression drifted away. He looked down at the table, avoiding Archie’s eyes. “He, uh … ran away. Last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Archie said. He remembered how devastated he’d been when Pongo’s mother died. “What kind of cat was he?”

“Ginger,” said Gold. “Timid. A shelter cat.”

Archie tilted his head, considering Gold, trying to picture him walking into an animal shelter to adopt a cat. Tried to imagine the workers informing him that his chosen pet was timid and would need patience, or extra care.

“He cried all the way home,” Gold said unprompted. “So I put in Bach’s Goldberg Variations - the autumnal 1981 recording by Glenn Gould. David quieted immediately. Later, I tried playing the ‘55 version for him and he was so offended he knocked the nearest vase to the floor. A pity, as I rather like the original version.”

“Yeah,” said Archie, who had only the vaguest knowledge of classical music. “Me, too.”

“I have the record,” Gold said. “When I was a kid, I got the original version from - from a friend’s house, but it didn’t last long. Later, they released a double recording, with both versions, and by that point I was an adult, so I just bought it.”

He turned abruptly and walked into the living room; for a moment, Archie just stared after him, befuddled. A minute ago, Gold had been prickly and hostile, and now he was sharing memories willingly, without being asked. Archie hesitated, then followed Gold, and found him rummaging through a nondescript milk crate full of dusty records.

He pulled out a particularly battered one and held it up triumphantly.

The Goldberg Variations.

“Dad used to work at a record store, actually,” Gold said. “He’d bring home singles sometimes, if they caught his fancy. But our things had a tendency to get destroyed, sooner or later, so …”

“Why don’t we listen to it?” Archie suggested. They had nothing better to do. Gold seemed to like the suggestion; he handed Archie the record and pulled what initially looked like a briefcase into the open, dusting it off and opening it. It was a cheap turntable -- not at all what Archie expected -- and when Gold turned the knob to power it up, nothing happened.

“Hang on,” he muttered. “It’s always breaking.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a screwdriver, taking the briefcase apart in a few quick movements, adjusting the belt inside, and putting it back together again. This time, when he turned the knob, a light went on. Gold took the record back from Archie and slipped it onto the turntable, setting the needle down with care.

“It’s been dropped a few times,” he explained to Archie. “Things are always slipping around inside it. It needs adjusted every time you play it.”

Archie opened his mouth, but before he could respond, the music started playing. It was incredibly quiet at first, and Gold didn’t bother to turn up the volume. They waited it out until, gradually, it became more audible.

“Oh,” said Archie softly, his mind lighting up with recognition. “I’ve heard this before.”

Gold nodded but said nothing, his eyes fixed intently on the record. The minutes ticked by without either of them saying a word, just listening to the music. Archie was certain he could hear the pianist humming along to the melody, and it made him feel like there was a flower inside his chest blossoming gradually, releasing a wave of warmth as it opened. But that might not have been just the pianist -- there was something about Gold’s face right now that struck deep into Archie’s brain, planting itself there. Archie knew he would never lose this image -- Gold staring down at the record, his eyes drifting closed, the barest hint of a smile on his face and sunlight hitting his cheekbones just right --

Sunlight.

Archie turned suddenly, his mouth falling open, and found sunlight streaming through the windows. The quick movement broke Gold’s trance and he looked around, seeing the weather instantly. Gold seemed to stop breathing; for a long moment, as Archie stared outside and wished futilely for the rain to start again, he could feel Gold observing him. The air was heavy and thoughtful.

“Well,” said Gold gruffly, breaking the silence, “it’s about time you left.”

He started off sounding relieved, like he was glad to finally be alone, but something twisted halfway through the sentence and left it hanging on a lonely, sad note that Archie couldn’t help but hear. He looked at Gold sharply and saw that he had heard it too; Gold was looking down at his feet, the tips of his ears red, his eyes wide and horrified.

“Right,” said Archie. He made a split-second decision to not torture Gold any further. “Okay. I should be getting home to Pongo.”

Gold nodded, the horrified expression slipping away. He followed Archie to the front door. Any hesitation he had was gone now, and he seemed antsy, eager to get Archie out of the house.

“It was nice talking to you,” Archie said on the doorstep, ignoring the fact that he had spent most of the day taking care of Gold’s wounds. “And listening to music. Do you have any other good records?”

Gold opened his mouth and then closed it, giving Archie a wary look. Archie couldn’t suppress a grin.

“Well, I guess I’ll find out tomorrow,” he said, “when I come to check on your bandages.”

“ _ What? _ ” Gold said.

“Gotta make sure you’re safe,” Archie said flippantly, already heading down the front stairs. “See you later.”

“ _ What? _ ” Gold said again, louder this time and even more indignant.

“Tomorrow!” Archie called back, and he rounded the corner before Gold had time to respond.


End file.
